


Once More With Feeling

by kylee



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Amorous Relations With A Clothes-Colony, Content Notes, Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylee/pseuds/kylee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions and episodes in the Neath-life of the Bohemian Epicene, Narcis- Confortola, or: answers to a prompt meme on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This episode includes the beginning and the aversion of a hate crime.)

"Honestly, gentlemen." Narcisa parted the mob like a satin-draped sword, her coat scarlet, her head held aloft. On either side of her clattered the voices of unease, glares darting between her and the Rubbery Man in their midst. "Honestly, ladies. Honestly, those of you who are neither. Is this how you want to spend a Saturday night? You should be drinking, cavorting, finding friends and lovers by the moonish light, dancing until you _can’t believe_ how dearly your feet ache by morning. Why waste the energy tormenting some fellow who’s never hurt you?”

A man in a flat cap sneered. “It isn’t some fella. It’s one of them Rubbery Monsters.”

"Ah, is there a monster here? I meant the fellow with the top hat and the tentacles. Perhaps you meant one of the fellows brandishing bricks and sticks."

"Now, listen here —"

"But I’m so much better at talking!" Narcisa smiled and spread her hands. "If you’d like to swing a brick at somebody, swing it at me. Bash my pretty head in, send me to the tomb-colonies. You first! You’ve the stomach for it, haven’t you?"

The man stared at her, and faltered.

"Now, listen here," continued Narcisa in a voice of silver. "I know how easy it is to get swept up in the moment. Most of you didn’t imagine yourself here to-night, menacing a squid-faced man in an alley. Who among you is ready to kill a human being?"

At her challenge, the clattering of the crowd fell to a hush. Only the Rubbery Man made a sound, like river water rushing over stone, eyes wet, tentacles shivering.

"I think she means it," a younger boy spoke up, catching the man by the elbow. "Look, let’s … find a pub somewhere, yeah? There’s plenty up Veilgarden."

"I’ll buy," a gruff woman offered.

“ _Eccellente_ ,” declared Narcisa, and clapped her hands together. “Off you go! Off you go, and _dance_!”

—

Later, when he heard the story with the Rubbery Man convalescing in their sitting room, Theodor asked what he presumed to be the obvious question. “And what further schemes did you have, should the crowd turn its attentions on you?”

Narcisa rolled her shoulders in the daintiest of shrugs. “Run?”

From the chaise longue, the Rubbery Man warbled.

"Ah, yes. Grab hold of my gentleman friend here, _then_ run.”


	2. Disgust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This episode involves violence.)

The ambulatory fungus, its cap like a crinoline skirt, came ambling toward Narciso on its tendril-stalks; scarcely had he laid his hand upon his sword-cane before Theodor shot it once, twice, then smashed it down with the butt of his revolver. It still lived, and it lacked — Theodor explained — the nervous structure for pain, but its stalks wouldn’t carry it until the Labyrinth’s cryptomycologist saw to it.

"This is what you do for fun, is it?" asked Narciso, in an attempt at levity.

“‘Fun’ implies frivolity. But I welcome the work of collecting specimens for further research, and further illumination of Neath studies. I also enjoy a certain competence, akin to Henrik’s enjoyment of ring fights, though Henrik is more attracted to the experience than to the success.”

"A thorough answer, as always, Professor Gylden!"

"A sincere question deserves one, Mr — you still have not told me your surname." Before Theodor could begin to pry, a flare went up overhead, a spark of illumination under the cavern roof. "Henrik has sighted the marsh-wolves. I’ll move to join him, if you can guard the specimen until Mr Inch’s men arrive?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Narciso said. "Go, meet your lover under the moonish light!"

Theodor opened his mouth to voice an objection, then shut it, and let the objection remain voiceless. Shouldering the revolver and readjusting his spectacles, he took off across the marsh.

Meanwhile, Narciso watched the fungus pulse and writhe upon the ground. He wrinkled his nose.

Hunting, he was decided, was still not the sport for him.


	3. Amusement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This episodes deals with transphobia.)

Narcisa did not have a lady-like laugh. It was deep, and rich, and like ringing brass, the tolling of a bell and not the tinkling of chimes. In her days of merely passing, she’d clap her hands over her mouth whenever she laughed — she’d wait for the cry of ‘imposter!’ She’d wait for the constabulary, for a night in the gaol, for exile from the university spires, and for her father to find out, as he found out _everything_.

Amusement came and went, but the laugh still fluttered in her throat, like a bird battering its wings against a cage.

But one night in a Veilgarden tavern, she hears the one about Mr Veils and a clothes-colony. She laughs, and she laughs, and she laughs until her heart flies free.


	4. Arousal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This episode depicts amorous relations with a clothes-colony.)

Narciso had always adored the touch of dancemaster’s dabs, of slim sock garters or plush petticoats. The embrace of a corset, lace after lace, or the easy settling of a house coat. Silk that ran up one’s thigh like the hand of a woman, or wool that scratched like a man’s beard, or heady velvet … Yes, Narciso adored it all. But not even the vainest of dandies would suppose his clothes adored him back.

Polythreme was another place. Clothes-colonies danced down the street, with or without anyone inside. Hats, which Narciso would always flatter without shame, began to flatter him in turn. They waved their ribbons as he walked.

On a white stone step, there sulked a collection of scarves and stockings like a haberdasher’s cast-offs. Narciso stopped to say hello; he made introductions. Here, an overcoat battered by nights carousing and gambling, the perfect companion for you — and so on, and so on, and so. The clothes reached out, rustled against each other, and shared stories in the arc of an unseen leg or the crook of an absent arm.

 _Oh, come with us!_ they cried with new confidence. _We shall complete you! You shall delight in wearing us!_

With a tilt of his head, with a tilt of a smile, Narciso brushed his fingers to a familiar lapel. An unfamiliar scarf slithered up and caressed his throat, and his pulse leapt under the fingers of its fringe.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "Please."


	5. Stress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This episode has no content warnings.)

"YOU ARE A HARD WORKER, NARCISA CONFORTOLA," observed the Pirate Poet, as she met Narcisa flitting from luncheon to luncheon and trying to coax out a venue for an up-and-coming opera.

"Me?" Narcisa leaned on the Pirate Poet’s arm, rather than wobble on her high-heeled boots, and smiled through pink-painted lips. "Never."

The Pirate Poet laughed like the low shifting of stones. “HARD WORK IS THE CARDINAL VIRTUE OF THE CLAY MAN. BUT IT IS GROUND INTO US, LIKE DUST INTO DIAMONDS, AND THEY CALL IT OUR NATURE. IT IS NO MORE OUR NATURE TO WORK THAN IT IS HUMAN NATURE TO RUN. THERE IS A TIME TO WORK. THERE IS A TIME TO RUN, AND A TIME TO REST.”

"Ah, you always speak so prettily," Narcisa murmured, eyelids drooping. The Pirate Poet held her close, and smelt — Narcisa thought — of fresh earth, of the salt cellar scent of the Zee, and of something else, something sparkling.

"REST, NARCISA CONFORTOLA."


	6. Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This episode shows longings toward erotic cannibalism.)

It was a cold night when the craving started, colder and darker than the bottom of the Zee. Narcisa craved mulled wine, something to warm her from the inside, and a warm shoulder to lean upon in the parlour. She craved the taste of champagne, and seven courses of fish, and a witty, wealthy matron who found Narcisa’s every opinion fascinating. She craved figs and honey and fresh-cooked lamb on platters held by handsome serving-boys, bunches of grapes that crushed and ran like red blood from their fingers to her lips. She craved someone’s still-beating heart to hold in her hand, just to hold, then sink her teeth into.

Narcisa was hungry, hungry for company, hungry for a love that would never leave her, hungry for anything that would fill her up and make her whole and make her warm. She was so, so cold.

"Please," she murmured into the night, into the space between her and another, waiting body — a celestial distance. "Please, look at me. Before you forget me, like you forgot the Eaten One —"

Her voice broke. “Please.”


	7. Cruelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This episode involves violence, sabotage, and a hunger for a Name.)

Hunger burned in Narciso’s stomach like a live coal in the stomach of a wolf. How he craved canapés delivered to his dressing room, carafes of coffee too bitter to drink, gifts of surface flowers to tear from their stems and devour. Still he told himself this was nothing more than passing peckishness — still, he told himself, there was a show to put on.

Not his show, no. His escapology act had been a flash in the pan, a glint on the edge of the mirror. He was the assistant, tonight — he was the distraction. He was something for the eye to linger on, then leave. _My, what sharp, shiny teeth you have_. How he craved —

_The better to eat you with, my dear._

The ropes felt heavy as chains in his hands, as he entered the stage, as he smiled. He brandished them before audience, snapped a strand through the air and into his waiting hand, held taut and uncoiled. He smiled.

Once, twice, thrice he looped the rope around the magician’s waist and arms and hands. Heavy as a memory. Four times, five, six, and he tied it tight, too tight to breathe.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven.

"Showtime," Narciso said in a song of laughter. He leaned in close. "We’ll embrace before you rise. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing —"

The magician hissed between his teeth. “This is what they did to the Eaten One! Didn’t you know? What have you become?”

Hunger burned. Narciso turned away, coat-tails twirling, stomach twisting. What was that sound? What was that roar like the roar from the Wound of the World, from the Judgment of the Dragons? Who was that?

Everything went red, red as a burning coal.

Everything went red as the light of Chained Suns.


	8. Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This episode depicts soullessness.)

The Affectionate Devil’s new companion had henna-red hair, and a face one could not place as a man’s or a woman’s, but young. Amusement played on thon’s lips like a bow on strings, a coaxing, constant Mona Lisa smirk, and thon leaned up to pitch whispers into the taller Devil’s ear.

Narciso watched thon. Narciso watched thon, as the Devil pulled him away to speak of souls — was that envy in thon’s eyes? No, it was curiosity. It was innocence. Thon had no notion what Narciso and the Affectionate Devil had to say to one another, or why it should be out of hearing, but thon still wished to know.

Narciso watched thon over the Devil’s shoulder. He waited to feel the hatred of a jilted lover for a successful rival. He felt it so rarely, surely now was the time?

He waited to feel pity for a lost lamb arm-in-arm with a wolf.

He waited to feel.

 _He swapped my soul for a pair of opera tickets_. It sounded like the subject of a song. The Devil left, and the Devil’s Companion left, and Narciso watched and Narciso waited. His lips moved without his urging.

“ _[I cannot sing the old songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3cMn8ajRgs)_ ,” Narciso crooned to the Neath air. Around him, the line to the opera left a wide berth — _Hieronymo’s mad againe_ — and they resembled nothing so much as a progression of lemmings.

Narciso wanted to laugh, but he sung.

“ _I sung them years ago. For heart and voice would fail me, and foolish tears would flow! For bygone hours come o’er my heart with each familiar strain! I cannot sing the old songs, or dream those dreams again_ … _I cannot sing the old songs, or dream those dreams again_ …”


	9. Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This episode references suicide.)

Narcisa didn’t believe in Dante’s Inferno, for all that she liked the idea of a Limbo for righteous pagans, for Ovids and Hafezs. She couldn’t believe in the vicious whirlwind, the punishment upon panderers and seducers, the Second Circle of carnal malefactors. If she did believe in it, she didn’t believe she’d ever visit there. Passion wasn’t her sin — passion wasn’t her shame.

Sometimes, though, with her nose in an embossed edition of Dante, she’d linger in the Seventh Circle, the Middle Ring with its trees and thorns and wild dogs. She’d imagine, among the hanging corpses, one with a fallen curtain of golden hair.

Narcisa would always hide her scars, pull gloves over tender new burns, drape a capelet over old whip-lashes. She’d hide her pain with a grimace that soon switched to a smile. Her shame wasn’t passion. She could be proud of passion, proud of joy.

Her shame was the shame of despair.


	10. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This episode has no content warnings.)

When he first spoke the words, terror seized his heart. He could be standing in the Forgotten Quarter, performing a Correspondence rite before a sunken tomb, blood streaming from his eyes and fire running up his throat. He could perform it with aplomb, with a laugh and a hand arcing through the air, but now he felt the gaze of the Judgments — no. He felt the gaze of judgment. He could be ignored by it, he could be dismissed, he could be condemned and devoured.

He spoke. “I love you.” The words arose again, light and leaping as the bars of song. Bar by bar, bit by bit, terror released its grip. “I love you. I love you, I love —”


End file.
